Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns. Lauren Weisberger

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       6

       writing the obit doesn’t make it true

      The morning after Yacht Party, when Max’s alarm went off at six, she thought she might bludgeon it (or him). Only with his prodding was she able to drag herself out of bed and into a pair of running tights and an old Brown sweatshirt. She slowly chewed the banana he handed her on their way out the door and followed him, listlessly, around the block to their gym, where the mere effort of swiping her membership card felt overwhelming. She’d climbed atop an elliptical machine and optimistically set it for forty-five minutes, but that was the extent of her capabilities: as soon as the program moved from warm-up into fat burn, she hit the emergency stop button, grabbed her Poland Spring and her US Weekly, and retreated to a bench outside the spin studio. When her cell phone rang with Emily’s number, she almost dropped her phone.

      ‘It’s six fifty-two in the morning. Are you kidding me right now?’ Andy said, bracing herself for the Emily onslaught.

      ‘What, are you not up yet?’

      ‘Of course I’m up. I’m at the gym. What are you doing up? Are you calling from jail? Or Europe? This is, like, the second day this week I’ve heard from you before nine.’

      ‘You’re not going to believe who just called me, Andy!’ Emily’s voice contained a level of excitement that was usually reserved for celebrities, presidents, or unresolved ex-boyfriends.

      ‘Nobody, I hope, before seven in the morning.’

      ‘Just guess.’

      ‘Really, Em?’

      ‘I’ll give you a hint: it’s someone you’re going to find very, very interesting.’

      Suddenly Andy just knew. Why was she calling Emily? To confess her guilty conscience? Defend herself with claims of true love? Announce she was pregnant with Max’s baby? Andy had never been more certain of anything in her entire life.

      ‘It’s Katherine, isn’t it?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Max’s ex-girlfriend. The one he saw in Bermuda and—’

      ‘Have you still not asked him about that? Seriously, Andy, you’re being ridiculous. No, it wasn’t Katherine – why on earth would she be calling me? – it was Elias-Clark.’

      ‘Miranda!’ Andy whispered.

      ‘Not exactly. Some dude named Stanley who didn’t bother much with details or job titles, but I think I figured out from some Googling that he’s the general counsel for Elias-Clark.’

      Andy leaned over and put her head between her knees for just a moment before ‘Call Me Maybe’ began blaring from the spin studio. She stood up and placed a hand over her free ear.

      ‘So yeah, I have no idea why he’s calling, but he left a message late last night saying it was important and to please call him back at my earliest convenience.’

      ‘Christ.’ Andy paced between the women’s locker room and the stretching mats. She could see Max doing lat pull-downs in the free-weight area.

      ‘Interesting, no? I have to say, I’m intrigued,’ Emily said.

      ‘It must have something to do with Miranda. I saw her last night. First in person and then in my nightmares. It was a very long night.’

      ‘You saw her? Where? On TV?’ Emily laughed.

      ‘Ha ha. Because my life is so unfabulous you can’t even imagine it, right? I saw her at Yacht Party! She was there with Valentino. We actually all had cocktails together and then the four of us went to Da Silvano for dinner. She was quite charming, I have to say. I was surprised.’

      ‘Oh my god, I’m dying right now! How could you not have called me the second you got home? Or from the bathroom of the restaurant? Andy, you’re lying right now! This is insane!’

      Andy laughed. ‘Of course it’s insane, you lunatic. You think I just happened to share a plate of tagliatelle with Miranda and didn’t mention it to you? She was there last night, yes, but she didn’t so much as glance in my direction, and my entire interaction was with her Chanel Number Five as she blew past me without a glimmer of recognition.’

      ‘I hate you,’ Emily said.

      ‘I hate you, too. But seriously, don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence? I see her last night for the first time in forever and she calls you the very next day?’

      ‘She didn’t call me. Stanley did,’ Emily said.

      ‘Same thing.’

      ‘Do you think they’re somehow onto our little habit of dropping Miranda’s name to book celebs? That’s not a crime, is it?’ Emily sounded concerned.

      ‘Maybe they finally figured out that you stole her entire two-thousand-person address book and they’re suing you to keep it under wraps?’ Andy offered.

      ‘From nine years ago? I don’t think so.’

      Andy kneaded her aching calf muscles. ‘Maybe she decided that she wants you back. That you were the best dry-cleaning dropper-offer and lunch fetcher she’s ever had, and she simply can’t live without you.’

      ‘Adorable. Look, I’m jumping in the shower now and I’ll be out of here in thirty minutes. Meet me at the office?’

      Andy looked at her watch, thrilled for the excuse to leave the gym. ‘All right. I’ll see you there.’

      ‘Oh, and Andy? I’m making the steak tonight. Come early and help me, okay? You can do the zucchini. Miles won’t be home until eight.’

      ‘Sounds good. I’ll tell Max to get in touch with Miles. See you soon.’

      Pan-seared strip steaks and zucchini matchsticks had become their go-to meal for every dinner the girls had cooked for each other in over five years, ever since they’d learned to make it together in a remedial cooking class. It was the only dish either of them had actually mastered the entire semester. And no matter how many times they made the damn steak and zucchini – probably in the neighborhood of two or three times a month – it always made Andy think of 2004, the year after she left Runway and her entire world had changed.

      Andy wasn’t one of those girls who remembered what she wore on every first day of school, third date, or birthday, or even when she had met certain friends or how she’d celebrated most holidays. But the year after Andy left Runway was etched forever in her mind: it wasn’t every year of your life that you quit your job, your parents got divorced, your boyfriend of six years dumped you, and your best friend (okay, fine, only friend) moved clear across the country.

      It had started with Alex, a mere month after she returned from her infamous Fuck You Miranda Paris trip. Yes, she cringed inwardly every time she remembered the exchange, aghast at her own bad behavior. Yes, she thought it was just about the most unprofessional СКАЧАТЬ